Fresh, Mediocre Drivel for the Teeming Masses

My friend and co-worker Andrea, who has been gravely disappointed by my lack of posting, should be pleased to see that I have upped my anti-slothfulness meds, and am providing new ramblings. Before we get to my latest "must read" blather, my wife Tara has demanded equal time to make some clarifications. Here she is:

Ok, first of all, you are making our boys sound like raving beast-children. People are going to think they need to be harpooned with giant syringes full of Ritalin and that I'm a terrible mother. Isaac and Riley are actually quite well behaved -- most of the time -- and I think you should try to portray them in a more positive way.

Second, and more importantly, the only immature person in this house who sometimes spells out bad words when HE is angry is you. And our house does not have a gas leak, or a sink hole. And our dogs, while sometimes a challenge, are good boys. You need to stop being so mean to them and constantly talking about how they eat poop and track mud into the house and scratch the floors. They are part of our family, too.

Thank you, honey. Allow me to very briefly respond to your excellent points. Our boys are adorable. And generally very un-brat-like. But Isaac does occasionally feed Riley dirt out of a plastic soup ladle he stole from the kitchen. And they do like to eat the 'Ol Roy dog food straight out of the giant rubber container in the laundry room. And their two favorite games are still "Daddy, Bonk your Head!" and "Daddy, Smell My Stinky Feet." (Tara is yelling up from the living room: 'Pray tell who was the genius inventor of these marvelous, child development games?' I'm going to ignore that rude interruption.) And the boys still have these kinds of interactions: "Riwee, here, I will take your new ball -- WE DO NOT SCREAM, RIWEE! -- yes, because it is a yittle too bouncy for you and I am a big boy -- STOP YICKING ME, RIWEE! -- Yissen, Riwee, I will get the ball and yet you taste some of this yeyow snow. Right there, see? I think it is gonna be soooo tasteee. Hee Hee! Eat some Riwee! Yesssssss. Do it! Quick quick before Mommy comes! Mommy, Riwee is eating the yeyow snow and that is 'gusting!")

I can't remember what Tara's other points were. Something about how we could sell the dogs on Ebay? Good idea.

I have some gripes that I wish to share. I am going to do these rapid fire, in no particular order of importance. Some of you have heard these complaints before, but they bear repeating:

McDonald's policy of serving lunch beginning at 10:30 am is utterly insane. Nobody wants burgers at that time of the day. But many paying customer are craving delicious and nutritious McGriddles or sausage and egg biscuits at O Ten Hundred Hours, and those customers will go home enraged (or slightly bitter; your reaction may be different than mine) that they could not have a Big Breakfast because of -- what? -- an internal memo that says:

"Secret Lab tests have confirmed that the highly addictive chemical in McDonald's burgers -- which compels people who would otherwise be ripped triathletes to eat three meals a day at our Golden Arches against their will -- is most effective when ingested in the early morning hours. Accordingly, breakfast service MUST end by 10:30 so that we can obesify the lemmings. Any franchisee found serving breakfast after 10:30 in violation of this policy -- even to quell rioting by breakfast-starved customers -- will be liquefied."

I recently did a lengthy email rant about this and I will not recycle it here. Well, I guess I sort of just did. But I have another long held grievance against not only McDonald's, but all fast food restaurants. See if you can detect the, how shall I put this -- severe brain damage evident in the following exchange between me and the garbled voice of stupidity coming thru the drive thru display:

Me: "Hi. I'd like a PLAIN cheeseburger. PLAIN. No condiments of any kind. No pickles, no mayo, no special sauce, nothing. Just a PLAIN cheeseburger."
(long pause while the attendant digests this stupefying, outlandish request)
McGenius: "Uh, sir, do you want cheese on that?"

Sigh. When I say I want a plain CHEESEburger, is it not implicit -- actually, explicit -- that said cheese is to remain one of the main components of my desired happy meal? Is this such a difficult concept to grasp? In fact, if one was legitimately confused by my request, wouldn't it make more sense to confirm if I wanted either "meat" or a "a bun" with my cheese?

Enough of that. There are more important issues grating on me.

Why was ESPN covering the Inauguration of Barack Obama? I love ESPN -- even now that it is an evil corporate colossus that basically rules the world. I will watch anything on the Global Leader: women's billiards (I can even tell you that Alison Fisher's nickname is the Duchess of Doom); the Stihl Lumberjack Tour (gotta love the "hot saw"); the World's Strongest Man Competition ("Oh, dear, it appears Magnus has gotten a triple hernia and snapped his femur trying to lift the final Atlas Stone."). But can the ESPN Ombudsperson please explain what the election of our new President -- as historically significant as it was -- had to do with sports? I resent politics intruding into my sports-watching. Thus, I don't want to read a feature article in Sports Illustrated about how Obama played basketball in high school and is a life long hoops junkie. (Gee, I must have forgotten a similar, fawning SI profile of George Bush and his life long passion for baseball, culminating in his ownership of the Texas Rangers. I think the working title was "Chimpy McHitler Is Ruining America's Past Time and Is Even Making Baseball Unpopular in France.")

I understand that all the left wing sports journalists -- like the rest of the media -- are writhing in paroxysms of ecstasy now that the Healer of Planets has arrived to save us. And they are free to write haikus or sonnets about the Dali-Bama on their personal blog, or in their daily journal. But stop infecting sports columns and broadcasts with your tiresome agitprop, because it makes me angry. And you wouldn't like me when I'm angry. Because that's when I punch chairs and break my hand (the epic tale of Daddy's valorous fight against bed room furniture will be saved another day).

It's grown too late for any further screeds. I think maybe tomorrow (tomorrow being defined as any time in the next week or so) we'll do a fictitious mail bag, with fan letters and hate mail from my readers.